Chapter Four
The headache brewing behind her eyes after her impromptu meeting with Dominick Stamp was now blasting like a jackhammer: steady, loud, and pounding. With a silent curse she realized she hadn’t taken her allergy medication after her shower and the sinus pressure she routinely was able to stave off had seeped through, making her feel like she was both underwater and stuffed.
Her allergies had routinely been a topic of amusement among her family, since she never suffered while living in the congested, pollution-filled city, but only when exposed to fresh air and open spaces.
“Just another weird physical thing about me,” she’d said more times than she could remember.
The fact she was riding in a crowded, cramped van along with Melora and the contestant chefs, who were all speaking at once, their excitement and animation loud and nonstop, increased the drubbing tenfold.
Melora had been waiting by Beau’s truck after Stacy said good-bye to Stamp. The girl had changed into a black summer dress with tiny straps that showcased her thin arms and delicate frame.
Too thin and too delicate. Did the teen have an issue with food? Stacy hoped not, drawing from unfortunate experience on how devastating an eating disorder could be, especially for a teenaged girl on the brink of womanhood.
“So your dad’s okay with you going with us?” Stacy asked as she climbed into the cab with Beau’s assistance.
“Everything’s cool,” the girl said while adjusting her seat belt.
Beau helped the time pass quickly by telling them amusing anecdotes about life on the ranch. He was a natural storyteller, and Stacy suspected he embellished a few of the stories to make them funnier. She didn’t mind, though, because when she sneaked a look at Melora, the anxiety she’d previously seen in the girl’s eyes had flown, replaced by a childish pleasure.
At the airport the van stood waiting, while the trio made their way to the baggage-claim area.
The preproduction crew had arranged for all the chefs and the two judges to arrive at the same time to make travel to the ranch easy. After reviewing the cast-info sheets, Stacy memorized all the faces she needed to find. Her eyes darted over the throng of travelers all waiting for the luggage carousel to begin spitting out their bags. She approached them, got their attention, and introduced herself.
A chorus of happy responses came back to her. Referring to her notebook, she called out the names of chefs and all were present, as was one of the judges. There was one glaring absence, though.
Stacy pulled out her phone and connected immediately to EBS headquarters. After a ten-minute wait she was told Jade Quartemaine, the second judge, had, at the last minute, opted to fly on her own and would be arriving later that afternoon.
After getting everyone’s luggage stowed, Dan Roth, the second judge, asked if he could ride back with Beau, stating with a laconic grin, “I’ve been stuck with this rowdy bunch since before dawn and I need a break. Do you mind?”
Stacy told him she didn’t, and she and Melora got into the van after making sure everyone else was situated.
Dan Roth had been right: This was a rowdy bunch.
Twelve of the country’s best and brightest chefs had been chosen from a selection process that included over six hundred applicants. Dominick Stamp, Teddy Davis, and a selection committee comprised of top EBS network chiefs whittled the number down to fifty, and then twelve. Ten men and two women made the final cut, and while the number might heavily favor the male side, Stacy knew the women selected were the tops in their areas of expertise.
“No egos in this bunch,” Melora whispered and then rolled her eyes. “Not!”
Stacy stifled a laugh. One thing she’d learned from being around world-class chefs and reality-television stars was there was never a shortage of egos of every size, shape, and gender.
“So, EP,” Clayton Burbank, one of the more seasoned and louder of the chefs called from across the van, “what’s the 411? We gonna start as soon as we get there, or is Nitro Nikko gonna give us a break and let us get settled first?”
Stacy heard Melora’s swift inhale, felt the air shift as the girl touched her chin to her chest.
Just because her father had a reputation for being…volatile, it didn’t mean his child had to be embarrassed by it.
“Clay,” Stacy said, planting a smile on her face and leveling a forceful glare at the chef, “did you meet Melora? She’s Mr. Stamp’s daughter. She’ll be staying at the ranch with us while we film.”
She was pleased when the man had the grace to look embarrassed.
“Um, no. Hey, kid,” he said with a wobbly smile. “Nice to meet you. I’ve worked with your old man before.”
Melora lifted her head and nailed the chef with a level gaze of her own. “Yeah, I remember. Kitchen Cook-Off.” She pursed her lips and cocked her head. “You lost, right? Never even made it to the finals?”
If Stacy had been pleased when Clay looked repentant for his flippant remark, she was downright delighted with Melora’s.
She knew she should have been upset at the girl’s rude question. She was, after all, being disrespectful. But it gave her a tiny sense of pride to know the girl had a bit of a backbone and wasn’t afraid of showing it.
Clayton Burbank’s neck flushed a cherry red, and as the other cooks teased him about the loss, he nodded once, then turned his attention out the window.
Stacy happened to notice one of the other competitors—the youngest, in fact, at just barely nineteen—Riley MacNeill, slant a glance at Melora, a tiny smile pulling on his mouth. Melora noticed the look too. She slid her gaze up, then down again, her upper teeth clamping down on her bottom lip, a delicate blush coloring her cheeks.
MacNeill was not only the youngest of the chefs to win a spot in the competition—and with that came a world of worry in Stacy’s mind to begin with—he was also the only chef to have never competed professionally before. At under twenty-one, he wasn’t legally allowed to drink alcohol and if he did while on the show, legal issues could develop, potentially prompting sponsors to quit their association with the network.
All the other chefs were experienced in the food business, some major industry award winners. The closest in age to MacNeill was Dorinda Katay, at thirty. Stacy’s concern was for the boy’s emotional well-being more than anything else. Would he be able to keep up with the unyielding pace of a food competition, the wearing strain of long hours with little restorative sleep?
His bio told her he was a graduate from a prestigious cordon bleu cooking school and already had an impressive professional CV. But the rigors and demands of a cooking competition, when up against some of the most famous—and infamous—chefs in the country was very different from day-to-day cooking. She made a mental note to make sure she checked in with the young chef and his producer, often.
Stacy stood, swaying a little as the van continued speeding toward the ranch. It was a perfect time to address Clayton Burbank’s question. She set her feet hip-distance apart and found her balance. “If I could have everyone’s attention.”
With all eyes focused on her, she said, “You’ve all signed the mandatory confidentiality clauses in your contracts, and once we get to the ranch, you’ll need to surrender your phones and any devices you brought with you, including tablets, e-notebooks, and laptops.”
“But my recipes are all saved on my tablet,” Donovan O’Mara called out.
With a shake of her head, Stacy said, “Don, you know you’re not allowed to refer to recipes anyway during the competition. Everything you do has to come organically or from memory.”
“Tough break, O’Mara,” Chesney Folds said with a laugh. “Your memory sucks on a good day.”
The chefs all broke into laughter, a chorus of good-natured banter and ribbing exploding among them. Most of them knew one another in some capacity, either having a history of working together in restaurants, or competing on other cooking-challenge shows.
“Your items will be locked away so you can’t be tempted to use them. I’ll have the key and all your families have our production information, so if any one needs to get in touch with you, I’ll let you know.”
She went on to tell them they’d be meeting their individual producers once everyone was settled at the ranch.
“Dominick Stamp has thought of some amazing challenges, so you’ll be working hard to win that two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar first prize.”
The amount sent a cheer throughout the van.
A few minutes later they stopped at the main house.
Stacy was the first one to hop out, Melora at her side. She’d planned on waiting for the chefs to each alight and then escort them down to the bunkhouse Dixon had set up for them.
Before she could even plant her feet on the ground Nikko Stamp was on her.
“Just who the hell do you think you are?” he thundered, the force of his anger pushing her flat against the side of the van. Her tablet slipped from her grip and fell to the ground as her whole body startled at the rage in his voice.
“What—?”
“Where do you get off taking my daughter off this ranch without asking me? You had no right. She’s not your responsibility.”
Stacy’s gaze flew to Melora’s as the girl, terror written across her face, jumped from the van. When she tried to grab her father’s arm, screaming, “Daddy, no!” at him, he grabbed her wrist instead. “And you,” he roared. “How could you sneak off without telling me where you were going? Didn’t you think I was going to be worried when I couldn’t find you? Hmm? Were you thinking at all, Melora, or just doing whatever the hell you wanted, like you always do?”
Most of the occupants of the van had by now evacuated it and were watching Stamp’s tirade, as were most of the production crew who’d come to greet the chefs.
“Dammit, girl, you know you’re supposed to let me know where you are at all times. That’s the one rule, the one thing I demand of you. You can’t go off on a whim.”
Before she could reply, Stacy pushed forward.
“Let me exp—” she said, trying to get between him and his daughter.
Ignoring her, Stamp told his daughter, “Get back to the house, Melora. Now. And don’t argue with me. I’m in no mood.”
The girl, tears in her eyes, face flushed, turned and ran from the scene.
“And you,” Stamp turned his ire back on Stacy.
“Please, Mr. Stamp—”
“Don’t Mr. Stamp me. Do you have any idea how frantic I was when I couldn’t find her? Do you?”
She opened her mouth to reply.
He never gave her the chance. Looming over her, his face contorted with anger and something else that tugged at Stacy’s heart, he spat, “I don’t want you here. I don’t need you here, interfering. But it looks like it doesn’t matter to the network what I want or need, so I’m stuck with you. Fine. Just do your job. And only your job. Stay away from my daughter. She’s no concern of yours. Do you understand me?”
“But—”
“Do. You. Understand. Me?”
Nothing she could say would make the situation any less volatile, so she simply nodded.
Without a glance at the throng of people staring at him, or another word to her, Stamp stomped off in the same direction as his daughter.
For a few brief seconds the silence surrounding her was deafening.
A sick wad of bile churned its way up from her empty stomach, threatening to fly free. Stacy bit back the acrid taste and tried to breathe. She hated raised voices and heated confrontations—with anyone and of any kind—and to be castigated so loudly and so publicly was mortifying.
Obviously, Melora had never asked her father’s permission to accompany her to the airport. The girl’s “everything’s cool” statement had made it seem as if Stamp was fine with her going. Stacy should have been angry, but she remembered all too vividly what she’d been like at the same age and couldn’t fault the teen for her actions. Melora was bored with her surroundings, robbed of her social media devices, and, having no one near her age to hang out with and simply be a teenager with, must have prompted her decision to omit asking her controlling father’s permission.
Stacy got it. In spades.
She just wished she didn’t have to suffer the wrath of that controlling father.
Something shoved at her hands, pulling her out of her thoughts. Riley MacNeill was attempting to hand her back her device.
“You dropped this,” he said, his voice low and to her hearing, tinged with shyness. “I don’t think it’s broken.”
“Thanks.” She took it from him and managed a small smile. “It’s not the first time this thing has found its way to the ground. Probably won’t be the last, either. I think by now it’s indestructible.”
His return smile was just as shy as the inflection in his voice.
“So I guess, unlike a good wine, Nitro Nikko hasn’t mellowed with age,” Clayton Burbank said from behind her.
The tension of the moment broke, and, along with everyone else, Stacy chuckled.
“Okay, folks,” she said. She knew how she dealt with Stamp’s outburst, how she let it affect her in front of the crew, was important. They needed to know she could stand on her own and not fall apart whenever he had one of his famous outbursts. She had to be the proverbial calm in the storm that was Nikko Stamp so they could have someone to rely on, if need be. “Time is money in these parts. Let’s get you all settled and then fitted with your jackets.”
* * * *
By the time he got back to the house, Nikko had been able to tamp down his anger. Just knowing Melora was okay and not harmed or injured or, God forbid, anything else, had him breathing easier.
But it didn’t get her out of being held accountable for going off without telling him.
Christ.
He’d never forget a moment of the blade-sharpened panic that had sliced through him when he couldn’t find her for lunch. The agreement the therapist had come up with for them was Melora would eat three meals every day with her father. No matter what. So far, the plan had worked. She didn’t eat much of what he cooked for her, but she did eat. And he made sure she didn’t run off and try to throw everything up when they were done.
Things between them had been strained for the past few days, though, due to the unexpected flare-up of his leg pain and his irritation with being given another executive producer to deal with. Added in was Melora’s continued harping on—as she so colorfully put it—being forcibly dragged by her teeth all the way out to loser-land with no friends or anyone her age.
Nikko realized she was smart enough to know he wasn’t going to leave her in Manhattan while he was two thousand miles away. She was too young to be left to her own devices for two months and too old for a nanny to watch over her. Her eating patterns needed to be monitored and she needed an adult’s presence to ensure she took care of herself.
He cursed again, the limp in his leg growing more pronounced the closer he got to the house.
If her mother hadn’t died, Melora would be with her right now. The eating disorder she was currently battling wouldn’t have formed, and she’d be a typical spoiled and obnoxious teenager instead of one hell-bent on destroying herself.
But her mother had died, and it was his fault. The joint custody they’d agreed on during their bitter divorce was null and void now, with him as the sole living, responsible parent. And being the parent of a moody, mouthy fifteen-year-old girl with a devastating eating disorder she could lay directly at his door was just about the toughest job he’d ever had, hands down.
“Melora!” he shouted as soon as he came through the front door. “Where are you?”
He wasn’t surprised when she stalked from the kitchen, arms folded defiantly over her small chest, a look of absolute hatred crossing her thin face.
“Where I’m supposed to be. Chained, like a mad dog, in the kitchen, dutifully waiting for you to watch every crumb that goes in my mouth.”
He winced at the hurt and anguish laced through her words.
“Melly, please. Don’t talk like that.”
“It’s true.”
Nikko crossed the room, his leg hurting almost to the point he thought he might pass out, and crumpled into a cushioned chair. His hand immediately flew to his thigh. He rubbed it, praying now that his weight was off it the pain would dissipate.
“No, it isn’t. Now please, can you come sit with me? We need to talk.”
“I know what you’re gonna say.” She stomped to the chair opposite him and collapsed into it, slouching to the point it looked as if her butt would fall off the edge. “I should never have left the ranch without telling you first.”
Nikko shook his head. “That’s not what I was going to say.”
“Oh? Shocking.”
He bit back his temper. “I was going to say you should never have left the ranch without asking me first.”
“I tried to find you,” she said, scooting back up the chair and into a more comfortable-looking position. “You were, like, nowhere, and it was time to leave. If I’d had my phone I could have shot you a text, but I don’t have my phone, do I?”
“For a very good reason, Melora, and if you think I’m going to give it back to you now, after this little stunt, you’re dead wrong.”
“Typical!” She bolted up from the chair, but before she could run from him again, he said, “Sit down. I’m not finished.”
“Of course you’re not.” She slammed her body back down and onto the edge of the chair again.
“Do you have any idea how worried I was when I couldn’t find you?” he asked. “I thought something happened, that you were injured, maybe all alone somewhere where you couldn’t call for help.”
“Oh, come on. That’s just too dramatic, even for you.” Her eyes rolled up and around. “Where would I go where I couldn’t be found out here? And what could possibly happen? There’s nothing to do around here that I’d get hurt doing.”
“Oh, no? You like walking in the wooded area down by the water, right? Taking pictures?”
Her bony shoulders pulled up, then fell again.
“And did you know that bobcats, grizzly bears, and coyotes are indigenous to Montana? That Amos Dixon and the rest of the ranch hands drive around with shotguns in their trucks because they’ve seen these animals roaming a time or two around the property lines?”
This time the shrug wasn’t as emphatic.
“Well, maybe you’d like to know, then, that a coyote was spotted close by the main stock barn a week before we got here. They still haven’t captured it. Dixon isn’t sure it’s still in the vicinity, waiting to attack the livestock, but they’re all prepared just in case one of them sees it.”
He had her total attention now. Her light whiskey-colored eyes, twins to his own, had widened to half dollars, and despite the nonchalant way she was sprawled in the chair, he could see her hands were tensed on the tops of her thighs, her chest was moving in and out a little more rapidly than it had, and her mouth was slowly forming an open O.
His voice softened. “So I’m not really being as dramatic as you think.”
He reached across and pulled her hand into his own, his pulse jumping at how cold her fingers were.
“I know you’re unhappy being stuck out here for the summer, Melly. You miss your home. You miss going out and doing things in the city. I get that. But I couldn’t leave you alone for two months. I just couldn’t. Not only would I be unbearably lonely and missing you, I’d be worried constantly.”
“I’m here and you’re still worried,” she shot back, but her voice had gentled from the antagonistic timbre of a few moments before.
“True, but at least here I can still check up on you and make sure you’re okay. Until this morning, that is.”
Her bottom lip disappeared under the top one. “Sorry I left without telling you—asking you. Stacy told me to make sure I had permission.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“She did. Honestly. She wanted to make sure you were okay with it.”
“And yet she still took you even though she knew I hadn’t given my permission.”
“She didn’t.” Melora shook her head. “Know, I mean. I... well... I kinda—you know, I didn’t.” She took a deep breath and avoided his eyes. “I told her it was okay. With you. For me to, you know, go.”
He waited a beat. “So, you lied to her?”
“Not exactly”
“Melora Penelope Stamp.”
“Uh-oh.” Her neck disappeared as she scrunched her shoulders up.
“Did you or did you not tell Miss Peters that I gave you permission to leave the ranch?”
“Well, what I said when she asked was that everything was cool. I never said, exactly, that it was cool with you. Just... cool. You know?”
“So she assumed you’d spoken to me?”
“Yeah.”
“Wrap it up any way you want, kid. What you did was lie.”
Nikko dragged his hands down his face. And because his daughter had lied, he’d exploded, taking his wrath and worry out on Stacy. Publicly.
Even through his fury he’d seen the sympathetic looks and nervous side glances she was being given by the chefs as they alighted from the van to witness his outburst.
But the look that had the most impact on him was the one on her face as he’d towered over her.
Fear. Stark, white, bold fear.
Of him.
Nikko absently rubbed his thigh and shook his head. So far, he’d blown up at her two separate times, both in front of other people, and she’d taken it. She hadn’t stormed off, or cried, or even given it back to him, as he’d expected. Every other underling he’d dealt with had, and had then quit, refusing to ever work with him again.
As far as he knew, Stacy Peters hadn’t quit. Yet.
At this moment, he couldn’t decide if that was a good sign or a bad omen.
First things first. He’d think about his EP later. Right now, he had a daughter who needed to eat and he needed to get prepped for the production meeting.
“Come on, Melly.” He rose and winced once when the impact of his foot touching the floor shot straight up to his thigh.
Melora’s eyes tracked his movements as he tested his balance, but she stayed silent.
“Time to eat,” he said.
“The highlight of my existence,” the teen muttered as she too rose, arms crossed over her chest, that perpetually dour teenaged pout on her face he was coming to detest.